


If I Was Your Girlfriend

by sparepartsandbrokenhearts



Series: Love and Affection [2]
Category: Holby City
Genre: CampWolfe, Canon Divergent, F/F, berena - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-24 18:13:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9778547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparepartsandbrokenhearts/pseuds/sparepartsandbrokenhearts
Summary: Influenced by the song "If I Was Your Girlfriend" by Prince, a one shot of moments Bernie gave the game away, so to speak. How do I love thee? Let me count the ways...





	

**Author's Note:**

> Canon divergent and not related to chapter 1 of the "Love and Affection" series. Bernie didn't kiss Serena during Protect And Serve. Bernie and Serena are still best friends, but Bernie continues to pine for more. A one-shot. If you like, let me know! It will give me the confidence to continue this series of domestic, fluffy (and only very occasionally angsty!) one-shots between our favourite female surgeons.

  
[If I Was Your Girlfriend (YouTube)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2qVOvCqGwF4)  
[If I Was Your Girlfriend (Spotify)](https://open.spotify.com/track/6yK7QgE4H7dIzHa9EV4FKL)  


 

***

 

"I should have known he was a wrong un when he chose a particularly cheap bottle of cab sav".

 

"Never had you down as someone keen on patriarchal gestures?"

 

"I'm not. I was trying to be... polite. Men need to feel wanted, useful."

 

Bernie quirks an eyebrow.

 

"That's why I don't date them."

 

"Well, you might be onto something there."

 

  
_If only,_ thinks Bernie.

 

* * *

Serena leans her drenched forehead against the cool ceramic of the toilet cistern.  She has now been ensconced in the bathroom for roughly two hours, emptying the contents of her stomach.  And then some.  Beads of cold sweat slide down her pale, clammy cheek.  _Was it last night's oysters?  The wine?  No no, please not the wine..._  


 

"Here we are," says Bernie, entering the bathroom loaded with a bowl of iced water, flannel, and paracetamol. 

 

"You shouldn't be here, Bern.  I am contagious.  An incubus of viral plague."

 

"Not true.  You're actually an incubus of viral gastroenteritis."

 

Serena musters all energy available to roll her eyes.

 

"Thank you, that makes me feel much better, Major."

 

"Any time," smiles Bernie, as she places the back of her hand to Serena's forehead.  "You're flaming hot."

 

"Now now, Ms Wolfe, is this really the time?" Serena retorts with a feeble wink.  It hurts to even attempt to joke in this state.

 

"You wish, Ms Campbell.  Here," replies Bernie, gently laying the cold flannel on skin.

 

"Really, though, you should go.  Save yourself."

 

"Nonsense.  I've raised two snotty kids in between shifts in desert hospitals and Holby, for goodness sake.  That's enough MRSA and C. diff to last a lifetime.  I'll take my chances."

 

"My hero".  

 

With a weak smile, Serena turns and is sick again.  Rubbing her back and wringing out the flannel, Bernie sits and waits.  And stays.  Because that's what _friends_ do.  

* * *

"This one?"

 

Serena holds up a stunning burgundy bodycon dress.  Tonight she will attend a charity ball in nearby Bristol, raising money for [Bristol MIND](http://bristolmind.org.uk/), whilst hanging off the arm of one Henrik Hanssen, who is adamant there will be plentiful networking opportunities.  The dress - sophisticated, classy, subtly sexy - is perfect, she thinks.  Bernie, on the other hand....

 

"Too... red."

 

"Good grief, Bernie, it's a charity ball, not a swingers party."

 

"Pity.  I might have joined you."

 

Serena flashes a cheeky smile.  A slight flush creeps up Bernie's neck.

 

"This?"

 

She picks another dress out of her wardrobe, this one a floor-length, long-sleeved bateau-neckline gown with lace embellishment.  It is, yet again, perfect for the evening.  Bernie narrows her eyes and ponders the dress for what feels like a half hour.

 

"Any time tonight would be great, Major."

 

"Too-"

 

"Ugh, too WHAT?"

 

...

 

"Posh."

 

"It's a ball!  It is not possible for one to over dress!"

 

"True, but you don't want to look as if... you're trying too hard."

 

Exasperated, Serena slumps into the armchair next to Bernie.

 

"Rather opinionated tonight, aren't we?"

 

"Well... you asked..." Bernie mumbles. 

 

"Fine.  YOU decide," she says, outreaching her hands towards the wardrobe, motioning for Bernie to make a recommendation.

 

Bernie spends a long ten minutes flipping through the assorted items in the Campbell closet, willing herself to concentrate on the task at hand rather than imagining 1001 different scenarios involving Serena in various states of undress.  Her hands find an old Harvard jumper, oversized and with faded print.  She extricates said jumper from the other more elegant surrounding items, willfully ignoring a rather naughty Agent Provocateur silk slip, which she is fairly certain is not meant to be in there...  _or is it...?_  


 

"How about this!" beams Bernie, holding up the jumper. "Comfortable.  Practical.  Advertises your credentials.  A great talking point.  And a surefire way of protecting yourself from lusty locums.  What more could you ask for?"

 

Serena sits for a moment in silence, a smile playing on her lips, _THAT smile,_ the one that hides a hundred hidden thoughts and desires, the one that could charm birds out of the trees, the one that Bernie loses herself in every time it appears.  

 

"Ms Wolfe, it's almost as if you never want me to get a shag ever again!"

 

  
_Well,_ thinks Bernie, _I wouldn't go that far._  

* * *

 

"She should have got out of the car."

 

Serena grabs two, no, three, tissues out of the Kleenex box and starts to dry her damp face.  

 

"How could she carry on with life, knowing he was always out there, with his bloody camera?!" she exclaims.

 

Bernie shifts uncomfortably on the couch.  They often sit like this of a night, Serena's head slinking down as the film proceeds until she is fully leaning against Bernie's shoulder.  Bernie's arm lingers awkwardly against the back of the couch, desperate to wrap around her _friend_  and feel the warmth of her arms, her skin, her....- but never quite daring to take that leap of faith, no matter how much Glenlivet she's knocked back.  But tonight she moves to shield herself.  To hide her face from Serena.  Because... she's been crying too.

 

"Something in your eye there, Major?" chuckles Serena, turning her head towards Bernie and handing her a tissue.

 

"Just a bit of, y'know, dust or ... or y'know.... oh sod it, yes I cried.  It's sad!"

 

"How sweet.  The big macho army medic loves a weepy!"

 

"Oh, please.  Meryl Streep could make the Terminator cry."

 

"We can watch Love Story next week if you like."

 

"Oh, goodie!" replies Bernie with a sarcastic grin.

 

Serena pours herself another glass of shiraz.

 

"I still think she should have got out of the car."

 

"Hmm," is Bernie's initial reply.  "Difficult though isn't it?"

 

Serena is now stretching against the opposite end of the couch, her knees pressed against Bernie's.

 

"What is?" she asks.

 

"Life, I suppose.  It isn't always four days of bridges, sex with Dirty Harry in the bathtub, and a glass of iced tea.  Reality bites eventually."

 

"True," responds Serena, "but it's like Clint said...  that kind of certainty comes but once in a lifetime.  Love makes fools of us all.  Makes people do crazy things.  Things they scarce imagined."

 

The silence that follows stretches for what feels like hours, with Serena's words lingering in the tense, crackling air.  Their eyes are locked together, a million unspoken words, wants, and needs transversing on the particles dancing between them.  Bernie knows this is the moment; to grab the metaphorical door handle, yank it open, to be a fool, and do the crazy thing.  

 

"Well!" says Serena, piercing the silence with a shaking exhaled breath, the moment passing as quickly as it arrived.  Does Bernie sense... almost  _disappointment_ on her face?

 

"We are the choices we make, Major.  And my next choice is... Kramer vs Kramer!" 


End file.
